“Nocebo” for April 14, 2019

Nocebo
  
I am the dark flip of the diagnostic coin,
treatment titrated into trauma.
 
Inert as chalk, yet I circle in the mind
summoning dark outcomes,
 
torquing healing powers
against themselves, imagination
 
metastasizing as fear. No matter
where you look, “Hey! Over here!”
 
precise warnings serve as spores
fruited by a lively brain
 
threading unravelling and pain.
I do harm. I fall like rain.
  
Leslie Schultz

Last night, I wondered idly if today’s title might be “Narwhale” or “Notorious” or “Negotiate.” But….no.

I have long thought that fretting is an abuse of the imagination, so when I catch myself at it, I seek ways to short-circuit that. Recently, I learned that the term “placebo” has an antonym, and this poem sprang from that.

Some of the images here come from two past exhibitions of the American Swedish Institute: “Mansion in Mourning” (October 1-November 1, 2016) and “Quilting Art Today and The Nordic Quilts” (June 18-October 30, 2016)

“Majesty” for April 13, 2019

Majesty
      for my sister, Karla
 
All winter, this view has comforted me:
your photograph, on canvas, filled with green,
palest blue sky, golds, and red glowing leaves,
supported by lattices of tracery.
 
You sent it for my bleak, frozen birthday,
knowing mine falls when our branches are bare,
knowing how our heavy skies glower grey
as unpolished silver here. I can stare,
 
up from understory to sun-fired glow:
a tree circled by delicate vine, a view
as heart-lifting as a stained-glass window.
Today, on your birthday, I offer you
 
heart-felt lines of thanks for the quiet majesty
of your soaring spirit, your care, your artistry.
 
Leslie Schultz

Regular Winona Media readers know about the keen ability of my sister, Karla Schultz, to find and capture images of the natural world. Her images are dazzling and humbling, and I am grateful for her permission to share them here from time to time.

For the past four years, I have been happy that, since Karla’s birthday falls on April 13, right in the heart of the National Poetry Writing Month marathon, I have had the perfect spur to concoct and share a sororal paean. Though I can’t be with her on her special day this year, I am happy to know that right now she is out with her cameras.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KARLA!!!!

Earlier this morning…
Considering the patterns….
The artist’s signature…

“Landform” for April 12, 2019

Landform
 
 
Long ago, I lost it,
the black camisole
with a logo of Devils Tower
stamped in silver. Still
it shimmers in memory,
like a lost constellation.
The logo was thin as a lichen,
flaky. I saw little resemblance
to the landform
that gave rise to it. Why
does it loom large?
Perhaps because
of the gossamer light
it continues to cast
for me? Memory acts like
a radio tower, broadcasting
signals only I can (fitfully)
hear: a triangulated tale—
who I wanted to be,
who I was really,
whom I might still become.
So, maybe, if I just stand
here, a little longer,
near up-surging
evidence—
vanished lava and
the Sundance Sea—
I will unscramble.
I will understand.
 
Leslie Schultz
public domain photo by Laura Lauer (pixabay)

“Jump Ropes” for April 10, 2019

Jump Ropes

Where did they go?
They used to be everywhere
in good weather,
those wobbly parabolas.
 
Little girls, holding
one end in each hand,
twirled the ropes
into spinning doorways,
string lintels,
stepping over them,
rhythmically, lightly,
over and over,
carried by song.
 
The beat of the rope
against the hard ground
kept time for the breath
of the skipping girls.
 
Where did they go?
Into air?
Into the ground?
Into echoes
all around?
Into cadences
everywhere?
  
Leslie Schultz

“Ichthyography” for April 9, 2019

Ichthyography
 
What would it be like, the writing
of fish? Something shining, I think,
a muscular, flowing
calligraphy,
a Piscean script—
accents of whirlpool
and fin flip.
 
Shimmering,
colorful circumlocutions
used, like kennings, over and over, 
and with lots of sudden twists
and turns in the plot, breaks
long as winter, slower to resolve
than river fog rising.
 
What would it be like
to write not with ink
or light but with water?
Describing each fresh syllable
with my whole body, then
erasing it all as I go,
every gesture a metaphor?

Leslie Schultz